Bend Me, Break Me
by Sorrel
Summary: Several years on, a man walks into a bar. Draco's not doing to well for himeself. Harry's doing a little too well for his own liking. It's a match made in Hell, but it's what they both need. Harry-Draco SLASH.
1. Part One

**Part One**

_In which Harry meets an old enemy, exterminates a rat, and meets his match._

He's a little tired, a lot uncaring, and his halo is just a little tarnished around the edges. But no one notices that as he walks through the door of the bar, because he's a hero. Heroes don't wear out, wear down, like he has done- they shine forever. But he's tired of being a hero. He never saved the world like they claim, he just saved his own ass and happened to do some good while he was at it. He doesn't want the fame, the hangers-on, the people that lurk around him with worshipful gazes. He just wants to be alone so that he can let the apathy enfold him, so he won't have to worry about living up to everyone's expectations.

He sits down at one of the tables, not in the center of the room and attention as is expected, but away at the edge of the room where the shadows fall thick and the eye doesn't wander. The bartender recognizes him- it is too much to hope that he could avoid notice altogether- but in a rare show of understanding, does nothing other than nod to him and nudge one of the boys to make his way over to his table.

Harry catches his breath as he sees the boy winding his way through the tables. Oh, that was more than enough.

Draco hasn't changed much in appearance, he sees, except that his hair is no longer greased back rigidly, but falls loose and soft around his face and in his eyes. The only other differences that Harry can see are his clothes, which are cheap, leather, and slutty, instead of his former designer label robes; and his eyes, which are dark and broken instead of their former chilly arrogance. Harry tips his head back as Draco comes to stand by his table, staring at him with shock, and Harry almost smiles to think that he's actually referring to his former archenemy by his first name, even if it is in his head. He almost smiles, but not quite, and instead he says simply, "It's been a long time."

Draco says nothing, just stares at him, but now a darker emotion shades his eyes, something that looks almost like fear. But why should Draco be afraid of him? He never was before, and now Harry has lost everything that could ever make anyone fear him, everything but his magic. His great, powerful magic that saved the world, he thinks bitterly, but he knows that that's not what Draco is afraid of- he knows better than that. Draco isn't one to be afraid of a power greater than his.

He sees a man coming towards them, and he winces at the glitter and flash that sparks around him. "Harry Potter!" the man exclaims heartily, and grabs his hand and shakes it fervently. Harry retrieves his hand as soon as possible, fighting the urge to wipe it off on his threadbare jeans to get rid of the slimy feeling, and stares at the man coolly.

"That would be me, yes."

"I see you've already run into your old enemy Malfoy, Mr. Potter. I'm willing to give him to you for the night, to do with him as you wish, for a price."

With a flash of sickening clarity, Harry realizes that Draco is a prostitute, and this man is his pimp. Harry looks at Draco with one long question in his eyes, and for once Draco doesn't glare at him or smirk or even drop his gaze, just stares at him with something akin to pleading, and Harry knows that Draco wants him to turn down the offer.

_ You've got me now, Potter,_ Draco is thinking. _You have in your power to pay me back for every time I saw you, bright and shining and perfect, and did my best to break you into a million pieces so you could know what it felt like to be me. But now… now you're a hero, and I'm the one who's broken, and it'll only take the slightest touch to shatter me into a million pieces, and you have a hammer in your hand._

Harry can see all of this in his eyes, but still he considers. After a moment a brilliant smile spreads over his face- stunning all those that are watching and only know him from his somber, unsmiling pictures in the news- and he nods at the pimp. "How much are you talking?"

He ignores the crushed dreams that he sees in Draco's eyes and haggles with the pimp for a bit before tossing down some money- less than the pimp wants but more than Harry wants to spend, as is the way of bargaining- and gripping Draco's wrist in his own. He sees that Draco is about to say something, to protest, even beg, but he negates that with a shake of his head and drags him from the bar.

As soon as they are outside, Harry takes a deep breath of the fresh air, especially appreciative after the stifling, smoky atmosphere of the bar, and points to the car parked and purring quietly by the curb. "Get on in, will you? I'll be there in a minute." Draco looks like he wants to argue, but Harry can see the thoughts running through his head, can see him thinking, _he bought me, I might as well do whatever he wants because it doesn't really matter any more,_ and after a moment's hesitation he nods curtly and gets into the car.

Harry wanders down the street a ways, stopping under a streetlight so that the he is lit in a halo of eerie light. He doesn't realize the unconsciously menacing picture that he makes, however, and after a moment he moves on, leaving the little pool of light. He lights a cigarette as he walks, inhaling the smoke gratefully as he passes by drunks, beggars, and drug addicts. He doesn't really care about his surroundings; he just wants a chance to breathe.

_ Ironic, that,_ his inner little demon mutters, _considering the cigarette in your hand._

_ Bugger off,_ he mutters back, and keeps walking.

Soon he finishes his circuit of the block, and is once again standing by the car. He stares at it for a moment, thoughts unreadable in his eyes, and then with a sigh he opens the door and slides onto the soft leather seat. As the door closes behind him, he gives a tired nod to the driver behind the wheel, and the car purrs quietly as it pulls away from the curb.

Draco looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, his thoughts undecipherable in the shadows of the vehicle as it prowls through the streets of the city. Harry sighs again as his head lolls back against the smooth leather of the seat, and he rolls his head over to look at his companion. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to take you."

"You're not?" Draco asks in confusion, and the smaller boy wonders to himself if he's more relieved or disappointed. "But I thought…"

"That I'd bought you," Harry finishes helpfully. "Not exactly. I bought your time for the night, yes. I don't have any intention of giving you back, however. It's never wise to give me reason to think badly of you, as your pimp will discover tomorrow when the wonderful money I gave him suddenly curses him with bad luck and he will die an ignomious death being run over by a tourist bus."

Draco blinks, then blinks again. "You're keeping me?"

"You could look at it that way," Harry says calmly. "I prefer to think of it as taking care of you, since you obviously have no idea how take care of yourself."

Draco gives him an affronted look, which he ignores as beneath his notice. "If you argue, I do believe I shall gag you. I found you working as a prostitute in a tiny bar in the slums. If you call that taking care of yourself, then I don't want to think about what you consider bad treatment. Where's your wand?" he asks abruptly.

Draco blinks. "It was broken and I don't have the money to buy another one for, oh, the next fifty years. How did you know?"

"You would have magicked your way out of this if you could," Harry informs him calmly. "Thus, you didn't have a wand. Why don't you have the money?"

"I owe thousands to the person you bought me off of. I have barely enough money to live off."

"Owed," Harry corrects him. "It will very shortly be past tense. The tourist bus, remember?"

"You were serious about that?" Draco demands, and now it's Harry who gives him an affronted look.

"Of course I meant it. I always mean what I say. Or almost always, anyway. Certainly about anything as important as this. This is our stop," he adds, and opens the door as the car purrs to a halt in front of a beautiful little house on the outskirts of the city. He slides out of the car and holds his hand out to Draco, who hesitantly takes it and lets Harry pull him out of the car and into his arms.

Startled, he almost jumps back, but he controls the impulse. Harry notices, though, and has already released him except for the iron manacle also known as Harry's hand gripping his wrist. Harry gives him a crooked grin and his heart jumps, but he hides it from his face. No way that Harry is going to see the way that he affects him, not in a million years.

But Harry gives him that peculiar smile that always meant that he knew something that he shouldn't, and Draco realizes that he's seen it anyway. Depressing thought, that he's so transparent to his sworn enemy.

But a sworn enemy wouldn't be wrapping him in his coat after scowling at the threatening sky and then hurrying him into the house just to make sure that not a single raindrop touches his skin. A sworn enemy wouldn't be sweeping him up into his arms and holding him close, carrying him up the steps and murmuring into his hair before setting him down on the bed with whispered reassurances. Draco watches him as he moves around the room, setting things in order for bed. He strips with quiet unselfconsciousness, pulling on a loose t-shirt and cutoffs before Draco gets a real chance to gape properly at the superbly fit body that his nakedness had revealed. Harry takes a pair of boxers and hands them to Draco, smiling faintly before he turns his back to allow him to change.

Draco battles a blush. He's never had anyone turn their back for him to change before, certainly not anytime recently, and it makes him feel like his nakedness is, indeed, something to blush about even though it had never bothered him before. Or maybe it's just the fact that it's _Harry_ who's turning his back to change. Harry, his supposedly-sworn-enemy, who has everything anyone could want in the world including a gorgeous body and a face that time has only chiseled into sharper, cleaner lines, making him a pleasure to look at. He thinks that he could do that forever, just stare at him, and then he realizes that he's doing exactly that, just staring at Harry when he's supposed to be changing.

He strips off the slit leather shirt he's wearing, as well as the black boots and leather pants so tight he was afraid they were going to castrate him. It was with a sigh of relief that it all landed in a little pile on the floor next to the bed, and he pulled on the boxers. The blush burning hotter on his face, he clears his throat awkwardly and Harry turns around.

The slow, unreadable gaze of the other boy runs over him, and suddenly Draco realizes that he's wearing boxers. Just boxers. Nothing more than boxers, and it's far too easy for Harry to see how pathetically skinny he is. No real muscle, just wasting flesh over bone. _Well,_ he thinks defensively, _it's not like I've had a lot to eat recently._ But still his heart stops when Harry's gaze comes back to his face, and he ducks his head so that he can't meet his eyes because he doesn't want to know what he's thinking. He just doesn't. It will hurt too much if he sees disgust or worse, pity, and he's too sure that he will see one of the those two emotions to risk actually looking into those bottomless emerald eyes.

Harry's soft voice interrupts his reverie. "I'm a bit overdressed, then, don't you think?" he asks, and his voice is filled with a quiet amusement. Shyly Draco looks up at him, only to have the breath catch in his throat as Harry strips off his shirt, leaving him in only a pair of well-worn denim cutoffs. Well-worn denim cutoffs that cling to his butt like a second skin and leave his rather impressively muscled chest bare to Draco's devouring gaze.

"You didn't look that muscled under your clothes," he said, a split second before he realized that he'd said out loud instead of in his head. His face flaming even hotter than before, he curled his knees up to his chest and buried his hot face against them, not wanting to see Harry laugh at him. Again.

"That's because I don't dress to catch attention," Harry says in his same calm voice, and crosses the room. Draco feels the bed depress with the other boy's weight next to him, and then he's being peeled away from his oh-so-interesting knees so that Harry can look at him. "What are you hiding for?" Harry asks softly. "And why the blush? You've got nothing to be embarrassed about around me, trust me. What's wrong?"

Draco only shakes his head mutely, never in a million years willing to admit the rather amazingly pitiful truth. "What is it?" Harry asks insistently. "You can tell me."

"Don't like comparing you and me," Draco mutters under his breath, hoping that Harry can't hear him. "Hate feeling inferior."

It is too much to hope that Harry couldn't hear him, of course- as soon as the words are out of his mouth he hears Harry's indrawn hiss of breath and the tension that radiates from just a foot away from him. Miserably, he wishes that he can take the words back, or maybe just curl up in a little ball and hide. But the first is never possible, and the second can't be done with Harry's cast-iron grip on his wrists. Again.

Harry places two fingers under his chin and gently tips his face up to his. He closes his eyes tightly, childishly avoiding seeing the rejection he knows he will see there, and he both hears and feels a sigh feather past the sensitive shell of his ear. With a sense of shock, he realizes that Harry has leaned forward until his face is right next to his, his mouth inches away from his ear.

"Never inferior," Harry whispers, and Draco's eyes snap open in shock. "Quite probably my superior by far, but never inferior."

Draco jerks away, shock radiating from every line of his body as he opens his mouth to say something, and Harry doesn't know what he is going to say but he knows he doesn't want to hear it so he forestalls the words but the simple, expedient method of kissing him.

Draco's mouth goes slack under the soft, insistent pressure of his own, and Harry licks at the corners of his mouth, begging silently. His lips part, and then Harry's tongue is in his mouth and rubbing against his with carnal sweetness, and can't help but melt against the taller, stronger body pressed so tightly against his.

And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the kiss ends. Harry pulls back far enough to look into his eyes, and Draco sees no scorn, just gentle reassurance and a distance, wistful sort of sadness.

Harry apparently isn't satisfied by whatever he finds in Draco's eyes, and he grabs his right hand with his manacle-grip and, pulling it into his lap, he presses it against the ridge that strains against the worn zipper of his cutoffs. "You can't really think that I don't want you," he says. "So why do you keep thinking that you're inferior?"

Draco snatches his hand back and holds it close to his own body, staring at Harry with a baleful gaze. "Plenty of people get off on people weaker than they are."

Harry looks somehow infuriated and... relieved? "I don't get off on my inferiors, Malfoy," he says, very slowly, and Draco quails just a little at the anger in his voice. "I tend to think they're sort of sad."

"You must pity the whole damn world, then," Draco snarls, getting angry suddenly and completely. "Since no one's the equal of the great Harry Potter." He manages, with the skill of years of practice, to turn a complimentary sentence into something insulting. It's all in the tone.

The anger is definitely starting to fade from Harry's eyes now, leaving that inexplicable relief. "You think that, huh? Think I'm still sitting on my little golden pedestal, with my little golden grown? Hero of the people, is that it, Malfoy? Love to think that I have all these people worshipping my every move, because then you can sneer down your pointy little nose at me and think that isn't it typical and if only they knew what a mealy-mouthed little boy I actually am and so on and so forth."

"First things first, Potter," Draco drawls, all anger and grief and sadness and insecurity vanished under his icy sneer. "You never were on a pedestal. You never wore a crown. You're not some great hero, you're just a pathetic excuse for a wizard who accidentally killed Voldemort in a desperate scramble for self-defense. You want to talk about sad? What's sad is all the sniveling syphocants who grovel before you when you've never been worth the rags that you wore in that Muggle place. And my nose most certainly is not-"

He stops. Harry is grinning at him like a lunatic, a demented sort of happiness in his eyes and smile. "You're enjoying this, aren't you," he says on the dawning realization. "You're actually enjoying me being an asshole to you." Harry nods happily. "For Christ's sake, why?"

"Stupid sniveling syphocants- that's a good one, by the way, very apt- think I'm perfect. I'm not perfect. Just an accident, like you said. Was trying to save my own ass. You think I like people crawling to me all the time? You think I enjoy it? Because I sure as hell don't," he says before Draco has a chance to answer. "I only know a handful of people that are left in the world that aren't afraid of me or don't treat me like some goddamn god, and some of those are starting to act like they're buying into the hype. And they know better, know how it really happened, know that I'm not that person.

"But you, Malfoy," he says, apparently not going to stop and let himself reflect too much on whichever friend has put the crack of grief in his voice when he speaks of them knowing better, "you're a bit different, aren't you? You don't hesitate to let me know exactly what you think of me, even though I know better, because I'm not so stupid as to actually believe that you meant everything you said in that little speech. You do think highly of me, which I certainly don't mind- in fact, it's rather a goal of mine at the present- but you don't worship me, and you can make me feel like I'm still real. And I need that so much, maybe more than you could ever know." He leans close again, so that his words are breathed against Draco's lips. "Face it. You're all broken up, but you got broken the wrong way and you can't put yourself back together because the puzzle pieces are jammed together all wrong. I can break you the right way, put you back together and help you heal, because I know what can hurt you the most."

And when Draco shivers at his words, thinking of a hundred horrible, humiliating things that Harry might choose to do to him, Harry Potter whispers, slowly and sibilantly, "It absolutely kills you to have someone to love you."

Draco freezes, and it feels like the whole world freezes with him. "I don't get it."

Then Harry laughs, and it's a demented but utterly happy and free sound, and Draco has to smile along with him because there's really nothing else he can do. "You'll find out what I mean eventually," Harry says, still grinning. "Because I don't think you'd ever believe me, and that means that I'll just have to show you. But for now... for now, maybe we should just get through the rest of the night."

Draco regards him with deep suspicion, and Harry laughs again, delightedly. "Not that. Not that at all, though I'm sure it's fairly obvious that I want to." He glances briefly at his lap, where his erection is still obvious. "No, what I meant is that we should probably get some sleep."

"Sleep?" Draco asks slowly, his head cocked to the side like it's a foreign word. "You mean just... curl up and doze off?"

"Exactly that," Harry says, and holds his arms open in invitation. Thinking that he really can't take any more shocks in the near future without going stark raving mad, Draco sighs and crawls into Harry Potter's arms, just like every teenage girl and quite a few boys across the wizarding world long to do, and when he closes his eyes he finds to his surprise that he's able to slip easily and quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

_In which friends are shocked, Harry is propositioned, Draco is wise, and breakfast is had._

The next morning Draco discovers that breakfast is something with very little ceremony in Harry's house. Harry has a butler sort of person that also seems to function as cook, cleaning service, gardener, and the driver that took them from the club the night before. Sterling, his name is, and he speaks in a monotone with a very straight face and, Draco discovers as he serves them a huge breakfast, has a deeply entertaining and very dry sense of humor. But despite his formal demeanor, when Harry and Draco wander downstairs in the boxers and denim cutoffs they wore to bed, they find him at the stove, cooking breakfast with perfect posture and a bathrobe.

What astonishes Draco the most about him is that he's a _Muggle._ Not even a Squib, born to a wizarding family but with no magic, but a Muggle born in the Muggle society who, at some point, had either stumbled onto the wizarding world or had been introduced to it. Draco stares at the man, who handles the frying pan and spatula that contains their eggs with the same grace and practical reverence that very great wizards use with their wands, and thinks two things.

First, that Harry must be the only wizard in the world who would pick a Muggle serving man when he could his pick of the best wizarding servants in the world.

Second, that Sterling is an awe-inspiring sort of person.

And yet, despite the surreal surroundings and situation, Draco feel strangely comfortable at the cozy little kitchen table. Harry ends up scooting his chair closer and closer while the bacon fries with a sizzle until he's right next to him, his bare thigh brushing against Draco's own while they eat slowly, trying not to laugh at each other when they both list the wrong way when Sterling tries to serve them their bacon.

And it's just... nice. Nice isn't something Draco is accustomed to, so he enjoys it more than anything, knowing that not only does he get to have a morning that's actually nice, but also that if Harry can be believed, he has several such mornings in store for him. He wriggles a little at the thought, and Harry grins at him around a mouthful of bacon and brushes his fingers over Draco's palm in a secret little caress.

And just then, the doorbell rings.

Harry gets halfway up out of his chair, then seems to think better of it and sits back down, catching Sterling's eye and jerking his head towards the door. Sterling nods and vanishes from the kitchen, and a second later Draco hears voices coming from the hallway, voices that are different from those he remembers but still familiar. He tries to get up, to flee through the back door and up the steps back to Harry's cozy bedroom, but Harry holds him back, holds him down, and he doesn't have a chance to get away before Ron and Hermione walk into the warm, cozy little kitchen.

They both stop dead, of course, as soon as they spot him, sitting with such obvious intimacy and half-dressed-ness with their Golden Boy, and their eyes widen comically as their voices fade away. Draco takes the opportunity to look them over, and to see the differences in them.

Ron is tall, he's always been tall, but now he's filled out to the point of being almost intimidating in his size, especially to a man who's always been small, and will never really grow past his teenage delicacy of appearance. He still has a shock of bright red hair, but it's threaded with gray now, and his skin isn't quite so pale under the freckles. On his ring finger is a simple gold band, one that perfectly matches the one on Hermione's hand.

The brightest witch of their graduating class looks no different physically, save a few grey hairs to match her husband's. Legacy of the wars that effected them all, Draco supposes, but he's not so stupid as to be blind to the less visible differences on the young witch, such as the deep determination and the shadow of sadness that simultaneously light and darken her eyes.

Before he can say anything else Ron's mouth shut with a snap and he glares at Draco with a deep loathing that's all too familiar. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"I invited him, Ron," Harry says, very slowly, as if talking to a halfwit. Draco isn't sure whether to laugh or be very, very afraid of Harry's cool audacity, or does he really not care what his oldest and truest friends think?

"And... clothes," Hermione says. "Harry, you're sitting there wearing cutoffs."

"Like I do every morning, Hermione," Harry says with a nod. "Nothing different there."

"But... he's here. And he's wearing boxers. And you're wearing cutoffs."

"And Sterling's wearing a bathrobe," Harry says cheerfully, gesturing to his butler-person that has edged past the two gaping people in the doorway and is even now serving them their neglected eggs. "Aren't you, Sterling?"

"I most certainly am, sir," Sterling says, and carries the now-empty pan over to the sink. "And Mrs. Granger was very correct in her statement of your choice of attire, if I may so, sir."

"Mrs. Granger?" Draco echoes, forgetting his apprehension as he looks at Harry, a bit gape-mouthed himself. "She kept her last name?"

"Always been a bit of a feminist, our Herm. And she says that 'Hermione Weasley' just didn't have the proper ring to it. It's a bit of a sore spot with Ron."

And indeed, Ron is glaring at them as if he sincerely wishes to commit murder, and has no trouble figuring out who he intends to commit it upon. "You still," he says, very slowly and with gritted teeth, "haven't explained _why_ he's here."

"Oh, well, it's like this, you see," Harry says, cheerful as can be. "I ran into him last night, decided I could use a bit of company with me out here, and brought him home to stay."

"He's _staying_ here!" Ron snarls, and looks like he really wants to kill something now. By this point Draco has lost his fear, and is starting to see the amusement of the whole situation.

"Yes, he is," Harry says firmly, and moves on. "And you haven't explained why _you're_ here, anyway," he adds, looking at the two of them with something close to disapproval. "Which, you have to admit, is very rude."

"I'm going to friggin' _show_ you rude..." Ron snarls. "To hell with manners. I'm not talking about this in front of him."

"And why ever not?" Harry asks. "It's not like you can possibly have anything to tell me that needs to be kept secret. I'm not exactly in the inner circle of Aurors, like you two, no matter how much they would have rather I joined them after the Wars were over."

"It doesn't have anything to do with Auror business," Hermione says quietly. "But Harry, I think you really would rather hear this news in private."

Harry opens his mouth to protest again, but Draco sees, somehow, that Hermione is really serious about that, and isn't just objecting to his presence in particular as Ron was. "Don't worry about it," he says, with forced lightness of tone. "I'll take my breakfast upstairs."

"I'll come up as soon as they're gone," Harry promises, ignoring the little choking sound of anger Ron makes at his words. "Then we can make plans for the rest of the day, yeah?"

"Uh, sure," he agrees. He isn't really sure that he wants to do anything but laze around, but if Harry wants to go somewhere and take him along, well, he isn't really going to protest.

He curls his fingers around the edge of his plate, ready to pick it up and go upstairs, but then Harry reaches up and cups his fingers around the back of his neck. Startled, Draco bends his head to look Harry in the eyes, and he has just enough time to be alarmed by the glint in them before Harry has pulled his head all the way down and pressed his lips to Draco's in their first kiss.

Draco freezes, and Harry pulls back, staring into his eyes. "I'll be upstairs soon. This shouldn't take long." He shoots an angry look at Ron and Hermione. "I'll make sure it won't."

Ron doesn't look to happy at that statement, but he keeps his mouth shut, apparently having learned to pick and choose his battles for moments when they can be more easily won. Draco nods and smiles, a slightly hesitant, fleeting little smile, and then leaves the kitchen.

He hears Harry say, "What the hell do you want that so goddamned important?" in a surly voice that borders on true anger as he walks down the hallway, but Ron's reply is too low to be heard. He starts climbing the steps, and hears an incredulous, "They want me to _what?"_ from Harry, but keeps going. He knows that Harry will tell him whatever it is if it's important when he's done his talk, and so staying around to eavesdrop isn't really worth the effort and risk of getting caught.

He waits patiently in Harry's bedroom, settled comfortably on the bed with the plate balanced on his knees, and waits for the guests to leave. Ten minutes later he hears muted voices from the floor below, and then a door opens and shuts and a car pulls away from the sidewalk.

Harry enters the room a minute later, his expression thunderous. "I can't believe their motherfucking _nerve,"_ he snarls. "They should friggin' well know better than to ask that of me. Of all people, those two should know better. And instead they volunteer to tell me the news themselves. Probably know that I would have cursed anyone else the minute the words left their mouth."

"What do they want you to do?" Draco asks softly. "What is it that's so bad?"

"It seems that like all people who fill this position, the Defense against Dark Arts teacher has lost his position. Unlike all the ones from our childhood, however, he was neither evil, nor a liar, nor a werewolf. Herm told me that he was fired for sexually harassing a student."

"They want you to take his place, don't they?" Draco says shrewdly.

"Oh, yes," Harry says bitterly. "It's not enough that I saved the world from Voldemort." A tiny flinch from Draco at hearing that name aloud, even now, years later. "No, I have to teach legions of children how to save worlds too, if it comes to it."

Draco is silent for a very long moment before making his decision. "Please don't curse me," he says. "But I think it would be a good idea."

Harry head turns slowly to stare at him. "I'm not going to curse you," he says, almost absently but with an edge of burning intentness. "You don't have to worry that I'll ever hurt you. I'd like to know why you think so, though."

"Some of my reasons I'm guessing are the ones Weasley and Granger gave you- you're famous for defeating the Dark Lord, the students would worship you. And it is true that while you claim killing, um, Voldemort," and he flinches a little bit harder at actually saying the name himself, "may have been purely self-defense and you were never trying to save the world, it's also true that you have a better grasp of Defense Against Dark Arts than any wizard of this day and age, except perhaps Dumbledore. I think that if you ask him, however, you'll find that he would say you are the greater wizard."

Draco falls silent, not really willing to say the rest. Harry waits for a moment, then says, "I know you have another reason."

"Well, it's... it's like this." He pauses again, then explains all in a rush, words tumbling over each other almost in one breath. "You think that people worship you for no reason and you think that you're not worth more than the common wizard, and so you hide away here. But I think that you're not going to ever feel any better until you stop hiding."

There is a long, long silence, in which Draco squirms nervously and hopes like hell that when Harry stops staring thoughtfully at the ceiling and looks at him again there will be something other than cold contempt in the other man's green eyes.

Harry finally does look at him, and Draco can see the warmth of real caring, and something that's very much like wonder, and a little bit of awe. "You know, I took you home because I was hoping to save you from yourself and everything else that eats at you," Harry says slowly. "Also because I thought you might be good for me. I think I chose more wisely than I knew."

Draco grins, his relief so intense that the smile just appears on his face without any conscious direction from his brain. "You'll take the job?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and settles on the bed next to him, carefully avoiding bumping the plate. "Yeah, I'll take the job."


	3. Part Three

**Part Three.**

Note: If this update shows up on the story alert, I'm so sorry for those of you who who come over, guns a'blazing, hoping for a real update. I'm reuploading this now because I was reading over some of my old stuff and realized that a lot of this section was in the past tense, which was just wrong, wrong, wrong, and I compulsively had to fix it. Also, as of now consider this story on hiatus- not that there's no chance that I'll ever revisit it, but I do have other fandoms and other stories eating up my attention, and to be frank, I feel I've outgrown this story a little. I appreciate everyone's response and all the lovely feedback I've gotten, but I honestly don't feel that I can continue this story right now. I hope no one's too disappointed- it's been a long time already, so I figure everyone's probably already given up hope. g

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Harry walks down the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley, Draco next to him. At Draco's insistence, they aren't even holding hands, and while Harry honestly doesn't give a damn what anyone else thinks, Draco obviously does, so Harry bowed down to his wishes and stopped any outward displays of affection. 

Just their presence is enough to cause quite a bit of a stir, though. People always get into a bit of a tizzy whenever he goes out in public, which was why he so very rarely does it. But to be there, in the middle of the biggest wizarding hotspot in London, and with his former enemy? It is a big deal. Harry didn't figure that anyone would even _remember_ his school-day feud with Draco, much less care, but Draco told him that the wizarding world has the memory of an elephant and was addicted to gossip, and Harry has to admit that he was right.

So they walk down the street next to each other and Harry blithely ignores the quiet gasps of surprise and the furious whispering that follow them everywhere while Draco tries his best not to cringe. He is wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt, both of which belong to Harry and were hastily witched to fit by their distracted owner. Distracted because Draco was standing there looking at the too-large clothing with dismay and wearing nothing but a pair of drooping boxers, and Harry is so not above being distracted by a little- well, a lot- of skin.

Especially when it's Draco's. Harry can already tell that the other man is fast becoming an obsession, and sees absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Their first stop today was Olivander's, for a wand to replace the one that Draco's former master broke. Harry can't help but notice that Draco holds onto his new wand- ebony with dragon heartstring, ten inches long and slender, a wand for power but with careful casting- even as they are walking down the street, though he has it tucked into his front pocket for appearance's sake. Wouldn't do to walk around with your wand drawn, especially not in a crowded place like Diagon Alley, but Draco keeps one hand on his hip, fingers resting over the end of his wand, as if to reassure himself that it is still there.

Harry can understand that. He might outwardly behave as if disgusted with his magic, but he can't imagine how empty his life would feel without it. Like a piece of his soul was gone. Then again, he doesn't have to worry about losing touch with it the way most witches and wizards have to.

Speaking of... He sees Draco glance at him, and he knows what the question is going to be before the other man can say it, but he already decided that he isn't going to hide anything from Draco, so he makes no effort to stop Draco from asking.

"Um¼ I couldn't help but notice that you don't carry a wand."

Which doesn't mean that he _likes_ hearing the question. "I don't use one," he says shortly. "Haven't had to since¼ well, you know."

Draco stops dead and stares at him in disbelief, forgetting for a moment the crowds of people he was so nervous about just minutes before. "You're kidding. No one can do wandless magic."

Harry just shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably. "I can. Something about the storm of magic when I fought Voldemort, it screwed with my receptors or whatnot. Ask Hermione, she had the whole thing figured out. She explained it to me, but I try not to listen when she's lecturing. Even if it is something that I probably should know."

Draco shakes his head disbelievingly, but starts walking again. "I cannot believe that you don't use a wand. How do you work magic, anyway? So much of it is the motion of the wand, you must have had to-"

"Relearn everything? Not really," Harry says with another shrug. "It's not that I can't use a wand, you know. I just don't have to. And when I do work magic without one, well, it's more instinctive than rote. I just sort of know how to shape the spell." When Draco says nothing, Harry adds, "Wands are just a conduit, you know. A way to shape your magic so that it does something specific. Probably everyone could do wandless magic; they'd just rip the roof off the Hogwarts castle if they tried. Whatever happened to me, it caused me to be able to see the shape of the spell without having to use a wand. Which is why I can wander around without a wand. I do still have mine, though. S'pose I'll have to drag it out again if I'm going to teach a bunch of kiddies to be heroes."

Draco snorts, setting aside the issue of wandless magic as something that can be explored later, when Harry isn't looking quite so serious. "Heroes my ass. Can you remember what we were like at that age?"

"Sadly, yes. It's not a pleasant memory." He pauses, and a wistful expression crosses his face. "Well, some aren't. Some of them¼ Times were simpler then, if nothing else."

"I'll agree with that," Draco says. Then he ducks his head, glances a little shyly at Harry out of the corner of his eye. "I think I prefer now, though. Despite everything."

Harry doesn't reach out and grab his hand like he wants to, and instead satisfies himself with a bright smile and says, "I think I do, as well. Despite everything."

He sees Draco flush a little at the very clear meaning behind Harry's words and smile, but it fades to a dead white when he sees where Harry stopped. "No. Really. We don't have to do this. I'll be fine."

Harry looks back over his shoulder at him, turning away from the display window of Madame Malkin's Dress Shop that he had been perusing. "Be fine with what, club clothes? Not exactly suitable Hogwarts gear." Draco still looks panicked, and Harry sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "Look. I would be more than happy to magic every last one of my robes till it was your size, except for the fact that I'm going to have to wear them myself if I'm going to be teaching. That means that you need robes of your own." He pauses. "You know what you said earlier, about preferring now to then? Well, it's not like I'm holding a grudge because you were a twat when you were a kid, and I'm pretty sure that you're not holding one because I was just as bad. Now, let's go into the dress shop like nice normal people and get you measured for robes while Madame Malkin fusses and I stand around like a long-suffering husband. And then we can get ice cream before heading back into London proper and getting you something to wear under your robes. Deal?"

"Yeah, okay," Draco says, obviously still reluctant to go in, but acceding to Harry's point nonetheless. Harry doesn't give him a chance to change his mind- just drags him in through the door and smiling at Madame Malkin when she flushes with pleasure at "having the prestigious Harry Potter in her humble shop."

And then she spots Draco, standing half behind Harry and doing his best to pretend that he isn't really there, and that was all she wrote.

Harry spends the next half hour or so leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, trying not to grin as he watches the portly woman fluttering around the stool that Draco is standing on, measuring tapes busy in the air. The glare that Draco sends him tells him that he isn't entirely successful, and that Draco is planning retribution.

He can't wait.

All measurements finally done, Draco hops down off the stool and takes his turn against the wall while Harry talks to Madame Malkin, discussing styles and colors and amounts. Finally, Harry pays her a sum that was exorbitant enough to tell Draco that he just had an entire new wardrobe, purchased and arranged to have them delivered to his home the next day.

Draco glares at him again as they make their way out of the shop and back into the bustle of Diagon Alley. "You know, it's odd," he says conversationally. "I remember you saying something about buying me 'a couple' robes. Not a whole closet's full."

"I lied," Harry says without a qualm. "Which I do, sometimes." He glances over at Draco, his eyes full of mischief. "Gonna punish me?"

Draco inhales sharply as several images assail his brain all at once, and Harry pauses, staring at him, all mischief gone from his eyes. In their place is a heat and determination that tells Draco that they will be sharing the bed again tonight, but it won't be for the platonic snuggling that have occurred the two nights before. Draco shivers at the thought, and Harry's expression becomes, if anything, more intent.

He is just about to suggest that they forgo the ice cream and Muggle clothes in favor of going home- funny how fast Harry's place has become "home"- and shagging, when he hears a voice a few feet away saying, "Didn't expect to see you here, Harry."

They both turn to see Ron standing there with Hermione. Both witch and wizard look unhappy, and Draco has to fight the urge to slink back till he is hidden behind Harry. Harry, perhaps sensing this urge, throws an arm around his shoulders in what probably looks like a friendly gesture to the general public, but is much more intimate that that. "You probably heard that I accepted the position," Harry says, sounding just as casual as he did the morning before, at the breakfast table, but Draco has no trouble interpreting the tension in the lean body next to his. "You can't expect the Great Harry Potter to become the Defense Against Dark Arts teacher at the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry without being properly attired for the position, can you?"

"Harry, remember that I've seen your closet," Hermione says. "You have more clothes than you need already."

"Well, I didn't say that I was shopping for myself, now, did I?" Harry points out. "I just implied it."

"So who are you shopping for?" Ron demands, in what Draco can only classify as a seriously idiotic question, considering the circumstances. Then again, he has always known that Ron was not the bright one in the Weasley-Granger relationship.

"Draco, of course," Harry says. "We were just about to stop for ice cream. Would you like to join us?" His smile as he asks the question is razor-edged.

"Er, well¼" Ron hedges, just as Harry expected him to. Draco has noticed that, amongst all the other changes Harry has gone through, he has also developed an almost uncanny sense of how people are going to react. It gives him an edge that allows him to manipulate the people around him like a puppeteer with a marionette. He has been doing it to Draco from the moment they locked eyes in the bar, but Draco can't find it in him to be upset about that, considering the results.

Hermione, as always, is several steps ahead of her husband. "Harry," she says hesitantly, glancing over at Draco. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"No," he says bluntly. "You're just going to tell me that I'm making a mistake and really, won't I just stop and think a minute because of course then I'll reconsider." Harry shakes his head after finishing his really quite accurate mimicry of Hermione's voice. "And since I'm not making a mistake and I won't reconsider, there's no point in it, is there? This is what I want."

"But-" Ron says.

"You've been telling me for over a year now that you only want what's best for me, Hermione. And you, Ron, have been telling me for almost as long that you want me to have whatever it is that I really want, because hey, I deserve it, right?" Harry is almost as good at doing Ron's voice as he is at doing Hermione's. "Well, this is what's best for me. This is what I want. _He_ is what I want. So lay off, yeah?" He punctuates this by pulling Draco a little closer to his side and glaring at the couple.

"We just-"

"Herm. I'm taking the job that, in your own words, is just what I need. And I wouldn't have taken it if Draco hadn't talked me into it. I'm taking the job, and that is as much as you are allowed to ask me. You have officially fulfilled your favor quota for the next year at least."

"We don't-"

"Year," Harry says firmly. "Possibly more."

"It didn't used to be like this," Ron bursts out. "It didn't used to be about favors or whatnot. We're supposed to be friends, Harry."

"Yeah, and you used to be less of a prat," Harry says. "It stopped being friendship and started being about favors when you two started buying into the hype about me. Maybe we can get back to the friends bit if you two think things over and decide to pull your heads out of your asses."

"You're running around with _Malfoy,_" Ron snarls. "Seems you're the one with your head up your ass."

"Which just goes to show what you know," Harry says. "My head isn't up my ass. Of course, if you hadn't interrupted, I was working my way towards having something else up there."

And, having dropped this bombshell on his disbelieving friends, he steers Draco around and walks away, ignoring the two gaped-jawed people he's left behind.

Draco manages to keep himself from laughing until they've made their way out through The Leaky Cauldron and are back into London proper. Then he gives it up and just whoops, bending over slightly as he clutches his stomach to ward off cramps. "I can't believe you actually said that," he says, once his laughter has died down enough to allow him to speak. "Fuck, did you see their faces! Priceless."

Harry isleaning against a wall, watching him with a smile. "Was a bit funny," he admits. "Though I was doing it just to get them off my back. Far too much experience has taught me that only complete and total shock can make those two back off when they've got the bit between their teeth."

Draco sobers immediately. "Look, I don't want to be driving a wedge between you and your friends¼"

"You aren't," Harry says bluntly. "Those two probably like to think that you are, but you aren't. It's been like this for a while now. All you're doing is bringing it to the surface." Harry shrugs. "If we're lucky, then maybe we can even work through some of it. If not, then I've lost a pair of great friends, but at least it's no worse than pretending everything's fine when it's not."

Draco thinks about this for several minutes, and eventually concludes that Harry is right. "I still don't like the thought of being the cause of it all," he says. "Even if it is, as you say, for the best."

"You aren't," Harry says. "The cause, I mean. They've just been looking for an excuse and frankly, so have I." He shrugs at Draco's look. "I never said I was the better man. Well, person. Hermione's no man."

Draco shakes his head. "No, she isn't." Pause. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Isn't your fault, and even if it was it's still better this way." Harry grins at him, hot and reckless. "Now. Weren't we on our way home?"

Draco can't help but grin back at him. "Well, I'm pretty sure that we were going to get ice cream and then shop for Muggle clothes, but now that you mention it¼"

"Home sounds good," Harry finishes for him. As if by magic- and Draco can't stop himself from laughing to himself at the thought, because, _really_- Sterling pulls up at that moment in the car, and the two of them get into the backseat, Draco first. Harry slides in after him, and keeps sliding until he is pressed right up against Draco's side, shoulders and hands and thighs brushing together. Draco can't help but melt a little, and the look that Harry gives him tells him that the other man knows it damn well. Draco leans over and, surprised at his own daring, gently bites Harry's earlobe in retaliation. Harry sucks in a surprised breath and lets it out slowly, his hand clenching and releasing on Draco's thigh. He blows gently across Draco's neck, causing him to shiver in response and press closer to Harry.

Both of them are wound far too tightly, and this has been between them, waiting for the right moment, since the two of them locked eyes in the bar the night before.

Home definitely sounds good.


End file.
